


You're Made Of Water And Glass

by SAOShea



Series: Aftermath [6]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV: Second Person, Present Tense, Stream of Consciousness, TW: allusions to self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SAOShea/pseuds/SAOShea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t the first time Danny Lawrence has been left, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. At least she knows how to put her pieces back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by 'Sights' by London Grammar.
> 
> Ideas for this came from three things:  
> 1) This post: http://imagine-some-gays.tumblr.com/post/104472505978/so-uh  
> 2) The fact Danny is not in any of the Christmas promo things  
> 3) All the angsty pent-up Danny Lawrence feels I have

It’s time. She uploads around this time. She’s filming live. Perry told you. These bullet points are facts. Undeniable. Concrete. But you try to ignore them.

 

You are lying on your bed trying hard to think of anything but her. But memories of her sit just beneath your skin and just behind your eyes, like an uncomfortable fire. You press the heels of your palms into your closed eyes, pressing the memories back. You press harder but they push forward anyway and

 

(you think you’re going to kiss her as if she’s the last thread of sunbeam being swallowed by the clouds. You just stare at her smile and it’s pure happiness is going to be the umbrella keeping you dry during the coming storm)

 

you sit bolt upright, hands flying away from your eyes and you’re gasping for air like you were being crushed by flagstones on your chest and maybe you were - your thoughts as that tortuous weight.

 

You’re walking. You’re at your desk. Your computer is on. You’re logging in. You remember it in snapshots, your life confined to bullet points because you can control those.

 

You cannot control this addiction of yours. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You argue with yourself as you follow the links. Your brain is disconnected from your actions because you’re on the page even after you told yourself you wouldn’t be. It buffers and

 

(you belong in that continual motion, that tornado of anticipation of your next fix. She has become your worst enemy when she’s not your deepest love. That smile is your umbrella for the storm you are to yourself)

 

you are reflected in the black mirror for only a second. Then her voice and you don’t really hear what is being said. You hear both their voices, a hot pool of lava settling in your gut. The visual joins and your ears rush with the sound of blood because you see her. Then you don’t hear anything as you see them both. Soon you come back to yourself and LaF is in the room and you bristle at what is being said. And because there is a time delay, you hear the alarm before they do on the screen. You keep watching until you see them all look at the camera and the alarm sounding for them and then Carmilla scrabbling up to switch off the camera. Then black consumes

 

(you)

 

the screen and you can hear the commotion outside. You leave. You watch. You hope.

 

The world may as well have been ending, you realise as you see the buildings shuddering and people fleeing, finding each other in the chaos and leaving together. You feel yourself pulled to her room, running against the throngs of people. Your heart pounds, your blood so hot it’s almost burning acid. You’re shoving people and you don’t really care. Your vision has narrowed to your destination. You thunder up the stairs, taking two, three, four at a time. Your lungs burn. You ignore it. You reach the room and throw the door open and it’s empty. But not empty in the way that shows the occupants will be back soon. More empty in the way that the occupants had taken as much as they could in as little time as possible. Realisation gnaws at you and you swat it away in irritation. You’re sprinting

 

(away from what you don’t want to be true. It’s not the storm. It can’t be because you’re stranded without any protection against the torrential downpour of feeling)

 

to LaF and Perry’s room. They’re leaving, hands clasped in terror and reassurance all at once and Perry won’t meet your gaze even as you ask where they’re going and where she’s gone and neither of your questions can be answered but ‘wehavetoleavenowcomewithus’ reaches your ears through the syrup of reality. You can just about shake your head and step back out of the way. You see through the haze of your vision that Perry glances at you with concern; she probably glances through you because you are so thin and fragile that you are transparent, you’re made of water and glass. But then she is dragged away by LaF and you are on your own. The building shakes and it reminds you

 

(that the world is ending. That you might as well let that little piece of self-preservation wither, because your tears aren’t enough to keep it alive. Only her smile)

 

that you need to flee. Before your legs can give out, you lurch your way out of the building. Back to the Summer Society house. Back to your room. You stare around the room and you

 

(are eleven again. And mother hasn’t come home and you don’t know where father is, like you haven’t known for years. And mother is gone and she hasn’t said goodbye and you are alone)

 

are alone. You pack. Your motions are sharp. Fast like bullet points. Easy like a list. Controllable like punctuation. Words are too much, because none of them are right for how you feel… they’re too small and miserly with their meanings and you haven’t got the calm of mind to unpick their threads… they’re too large and wild and can’t be tamed and you can’t hope to tame anything because you can’t tame yourself.

 

Your whole life is a cycle of leaving and coming back and never again’s which last for as long as it takes her to realise that you’re still there for her. You are

 

(still here. Mother, I’m here. I am waiting for you. You left again. Why do you never tell me you’re going? Why do you never say goodbye?)

 

still there for her. You are still here. You need to leave. It’s your turn to leave. Even if you don’t know where you are going to go. Going is better than staying. Going will give you purpose. Going makes you like them.

 

(The storm is here… you’re drowning in the downpour... Laura didn’t even say goodbye)


	2. Chapter 2

You spend five minutes lost in yourself; your anger and hurt culminating in a pain akin to fire and burning a chasm in your chest (you know all too well the pain of flames licking your skin).

 

Maybe the heat is why you feel like you can't breathe, stifled by the smoke of your own emotions.

 

This five minutes feels like a lifetime. It's five minutes where you think all this heat is bound to make you combust. You welcome that thought, you think you want to let it all end just so you can feel nothing, so that you don't feel like your emotions are using you up. You are crouched in the middle of your room, clutching your hastily packed bags and supplies.

 

Even in the maelstrom of anguish you’ve gathered what you need. The thought should be one of pride but you only feel anger (it wasn’t enough, it’s never enough). You grip your hair between your fingers, knotting it and pulling it taut, anything to stop those whispering voices reminding you of how replaceable - how unnecessary - you are.

 

The barricades drop. Your loathing solidifies into a steely emptiness. After so much (too much) you just switch off. You think for a moment that maybe the fire has burnt you up and you’ve just ceased to exist. But then you feel your heart beat (erratic with residual fury) and your lungs feel like they can fill again (but not completely). You unthread your hair from your fingers and untangle it, excruciatingly slow because if you move any faster you might shatter.

 

You remember how being left before hurt more and for so much longer. But you learnt to quash your grief and you’ve gotten so good at it that no-one can see it. Only you know it’s there, gnawing through the tentative threads of thought in your mind and showing you the nasty truth: that no-one needs you.

 

“Danny?”

 

Your muscles tense, defensively. This vulnerability isn’t something you need anyone to see. You draw yourself up and let your limbs loosen before turning to see a girl standing in the doorway. You recognise her as one of the first year Summer Sisters. She is slight, with a look of determination setting her features but worry dances in her deep brown eyes.

 

“Yes,” you reply, your voice cracking from disuse, but the noise of the siren and the commotion outside cover it up.

 

“What should we do?”

 

The question catches you off guard. You hadn’t considered what to do beyond each minute that unfolded ahead of you. But there is much more to come and so you’re pulled away from yourself and into something you can manage.

 

“Where’s Kay?” you ask, your first port of call is to find your superior and collaborate. The ground lurches and you both take a moment to steady yourselves.

 

“We think she took some of the older Sisters to help the evacuation, before leaving themselves. It’s just us first years and Elsie. She told me to come find you.”

 

You nod. You’re back in your comfort zone, despite the uncertainty of the situation, because danger is what you’re best at. You pick up your bags, shouldering them. The thrumming underground grows stronger, like a spring coiling you feel the tension in the earth building.

 

“Have you all packed bags? Supplies? Weapons?”

 

The girl nods and you unlock your weapons from the cabinet, taking your archery equipment and spears and loading them onto your back and your _claymore_ and slinging it at your hip. You feel another shudder through the earth and hear the groaning of buildings outside, only just withstanding the jolting of the ground beneath them. Adrenaline buzzes through your muscles.

 

“We better get everyone and leave. I don’t trust these buildings to hold for much longer,” you say to the girl. You make to leave the room but your sparse pinboard catches your attention - one photo in particular (even though there’s only four on there). In it she’s smiling at the camera, her eyes dancing with mirth and her arm around your shoulders; you're smiling too but you’re looking at her, your arm outstretched to take the photo.

 

You hesitate.

 

One of your feet is over the threshold of your room, but you turn back.

 

You reach to grab at that picture.

 

Your fingers brush over it.

 

The floor trembles.

 

You grab it.

 

You tug.

 

It comes away.

 

You leave the room.

 

And it flutters to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't just leave Danny to fall apart.


	3. Chapter 3

The dank air of the woods is surprisingly disgusting. It’s heavy with the sticky, red mist that is oozing from in between the rubble of the Lustig building. In the thickest of the mist, the air tastes like week-old blood and smells like old meat, but luckily you are beyond that now and you can pull your scarf from being uncomfortably tight against your face. The acrid saltiness of the air in the forest isn’t pleasant but it’s bearable and it keeps you focussed and moving. All you can do is keep walking, because staying anywhere near campus is too dangerous.

 

You and your band of Summer Sisters were among the last of the student body to evacuate. You’d picked up a few stragglers along the way, but between seventeen SumSoc trainees and two older reps, you’re sure you have enough tent space, weapons and supplies to go around. Of the seven new members in your group, you recognise three of them from tryouts at the beginning of term (which seems like such an age away now) and two from the Lit class you are a TA for (though you don’t dwell on that for any longer than you have to). The other two appear to be friends of some of the Summer Sisters, so the group seems to be functioning well enough.

 

Elsie is taking up the back of the group, you glance over your shoulder and see an angry, dark look on the other girl’s usually soft and friendly features. Her hair is falling from the tie holding it and hanging in limp strands around her face, heavy with the ichor in the air. Her jaw is clenched tightly and she meets your gaze, offering you a tight smile. You nod at her and turn back to find the best way through the forest.

 

Of course, you’d tried the cars, but it seemed the blood-mist had prevented them from starting. And also stopping your phones from working. The earth is still shifting, like muscles underneath skin and your pace is fast, unrelentless, to escape whatever is lurking beneath the campus. Your brow is pulled into a tight frown and your teeth are grinding against each other, in an attempt to focus yourself. You can feel your anger still burning, just behind your eyes. It makes your head throb and your skin buzz as if you are a live wire.

 

No-one complains about the distance or speed, so you keep soldiering on. Eventually, a hum of chatter among the first years reaches your ears and you notice you’ve passed through the worst of the mist, into the thickening forest at the base of the mountains. Your eyes still sting, though, and you realise they’re too dry. You raise a hand to your face and it’s damp. The tears have been escaping silently, partially due to the sour air, but mostly to do with the fire in your blood.

 

When the light begins to dwindle, you search for a clearing large enough to camp in. The darkness is vague and creeps up on you, reminding you of your feelings for Laura. Except that they were a hazy sunrise, before a brilliantly bright day of warmth and soft grass beneath your bare feet. Your breath hitches slightly as you think about her and the dangerous clarity of your emotions becomes the knife blade biting at your skin. A growl catches in your throat, teetering before falling back. It’s closely followed by a sob which you’re not so lucky to catch and that hits the back of your still clenched teeth. A small sound escapes and you hope beyond hope that it goes unnoticed. You clench both your fists tight until it feels like your fingers aren’t your own.

 

Finally, you find a clearing. The trees surround it like wizened fingers stretching up from their palm.

 

“We’ll stop here,” your voice is too cracked and so you have to repeat yourself. An exhausted sigh of relief flutters through the group. You acknowledge the tired pain in your muscles, but dissociate yourself from it; your limbs hurt far less than your heart does. So, you start a small campfire, hearing it crackle like the faint buzz of hurt still prickling at your skin. Then, you help everyone set up their tents and you organise sleep space and you make sure everyone is fed and hydrated.

 

The ground feels more still here which actually makes you feel calmer, though not calm enough to sleep. You sit by the campfire, watching the flames dance with the wind - you think about Laura and waxing poetic, but a rustle of leaves behind you has you up in flurry of motion, your _claymore_ in hand and you discover it’s Elsie.

 

“Jumpy much, Lawrence?” she chuckles slightly but you notice the tightness of her smile. You don’t reply and sit back down, placing your sword beside you. A moment later, Elsie joins you.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks. You shake your head.

 

“Me neither,” she responds. You both sit in silence and watch the flames for a moment.

 

“Why?” you ask.

 

“I’m scared I’ll dream. The blood-mist reminded me of the dreams where I was drowning in blood and I’m scared if I dream of that, I’ll never wake up,” she replied, her voice so quiet you strain to hear it over the sounds of the forest and the crackling of the fire.

 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh in reply and offer her your hand. She clasps it firmly.

 

“Thank you,” she says and tentatively adds: “How about you?”

 

You consider the question and the reason for your anguish. The burning in your chest is now just a dull throb, threatening to rear up if you feed it attention. You contemplate your duties and compare your importance to them with your apparent lack of importance to Laura, all with an icy indifference; your watery fragility has frozen solid. You come to a decision.

  
“For now,” you state, “It’s not important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this is actually the last chapter...  
> I just had to be a little less mean to Danny.


End file.
